


In my defence, I have none.

by NorthernRose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Jon Snow has a red hair kink and we all know and endorse it, Jon Snow is Not a Stark, if you know what i mean, like...TAKEN care of, so she needs taken care of, some fella's did Sansa wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25630924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernRose/pseuds/NorthernRose
Summary: So, she had taken a half day today, leaving the office with a kiss on her papa’s cheek for an appointment at an overpriced salon that her mother would likely frequent. The process of stripping the cheap, brown dye from her hair had been tedious at best, and aggravating at worst, the hairdresser had tutted at her repeatedly for trying to ruin something so glorious darling, but after much of an afternoon, eventually her hair had been revived to its natural auburn, hanging down to the small of her back like a living and breathing copper flame.That’s all well and good. Congratulations, she tells herself, a pat on the back well done for doing whatever the hell it is you want to do, but it has led ultimately to this moment, standing in a bar in Wintertown amongst her siblings and friends, in a scandalously short black dress with barely there straps, heels to match and an oversized blazer, with her hair surrounding her in soft, fiery waves as she stands across the bar to Jon Snow, who looks perfectly ready to devour her at any moment.*Fun, flirty, sauciness from Sansa and Co, in which Jon fails to keep his cool around a newly returned home Miss Stark.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 128





	In my defence, I have none.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello darlings, 
> 
> I havent written or posted a thing since May, for which I am sorry. It is a tad daft to start something new when I have so many WIPs open, but I needed something to motivate me. 
> 
> I found out I was pregnant in April, which we are thrilled about, but the first trimester has been a bit of a trip, whilst trying to manage nursing during the pandemic, so I have been a bit distracted but soon realised I missed this and everyone and need to throw myself back into something, now that the little blueberry in my tummy has decided to start behaving itself! 
> 
> This fic is completely light-hearted and not to be taken to seriously, maybe we need a smidge of that right now. 
> 
> Any-who, all the best. 
> 
> Rose x

It starts with her hair. She supposes the bullets had been loaded, one by one, clinking softly into the chamber of the gun over the last few months or so, but it’s her hair that finally causes the trigger to squeeze. Well, more specifically, her hair returned to its natural, coppery glory.

Sansa has only been back in Wintertown for four months or so. After a teary-eyed cheerio was called to Kings Landing, and a ghastly scramble away from her _educational_ stay in the Vale she returned home with her tail between her legs, numb and cold and rather disillusioned with illusion. She’s not doing so bad really, she has a little flat in the market district, its noisy and a little quaint in her ramshackle neighbourhood, but its hers. She swallowed the medicine, bitter and heavy as it was, and took the job at her father’s offices that he has been offering her for years. Maybe one day she will open that little florist she has always dreamed of, just maybe.

Her family had been overjoyed at her return, despite an obvious lack of understanding of what it was that caused the eldest Stark daughter to fling herself away from the glorious South that she had always waxed lyrical about. The only thing her mother had been upset about is that she returned, albeit shyly, with her hair dyed the dullest and darkest brown.

Even her dear papa had stared forlornly at her much-changed appearance.

She hadn’t done it till she arrived in the Vale. She had gotten a lot of attention in the South, attention that at the time she had adored, but one too many golden haired boys with pinching hands and sharp tongues had soon made her resent how she looked. So, she had found the most everyday box of dye and taken it to her tresses.

The Vale, as it turned out, was no different to Kings Landing. Instead of vicious boys with violent tempers she found older men with their suits and their secrets. Her effort to blend in and play the wallflower had been futile, so she went home, where she knew she would always be welcome, and whatever version of Sansa she now chose to become, would be welcomed too with open arms.

She wasn’t silly enough to equate who she was as a person to something as frivolous as a hair colour, but she missed it. She missed that Tully shade, it made her stand taller and firmer. She may not look the part of a Stark, but it made her feel it.

So, she had taken a half day today, leaving the office with a kiss on her papa’s cheek for an appointment at an overpriced salon that her mother would likely frequent. The process of stripping the cheap, brown dye from her hair had been tedious at best, and aggravating at worst, the hairdresser had tutted at her repeatedly for trying to ruin something so _glorious darling_ , but after much of an afternoon, eventually her hair had been revived to its natural auburn, hanging down to the small of her back like a living and breathing copper flame.

Because Sansa Stark no longer gave a fuck about boys and men who thought they could make her feel like she wasn’t exactly who she wanted to be.

That’s all well and good. _Congratulations_ , she tells herself, _a pat on the back well done_ for doing whatever the hell it is you want to do, but it has led ultimately to this moment, standing in a bar in Wintertown amongst her siblings and friends, in a scandalously short black dress with barely there straps, heels to match and an oversized blazer, with her hair surrounding her in soft, fiery waves as she stands across the bar to Jon Snow, who looks perfectly ready to devour her at any moment.

He has changed just as much as her, but that will happen to a person in four years. The once shy and awkward Jon Snow of her teenage years is shy and awkward no more. He’s quiet yes, but every time she has seen him in passing over the past several months, over some group dinner or last minute _I’m just coming for one drink_ get togethers, he has had this glint to him, where his eyes seem to smile more than he ever has for true. Once he has a few drinks in him that twinkle in his eye turns into an actual twitching of the lips, delicious as they are, into the smallest but most devilish grin she has ever seen.

He’s not smiling at her now though.

She’s been glancing at the bottom of her gin and tonic as a rule, nodding and trying to keep up with whatever it is Arya is saying as she stands next to her, but the problem with trying to use her sister as a human shield is that she is so bloody small, and every time she throws a glance upwards she breezes over the top of the pocket rocket’s head and locks eyes fleetingly with Jon, as he stands between her brother and Theon at the over side of the bar.

Robb is chirping away happily to his friends, woefully ignorant to the undressing Jon is currently giving her as she bites her lip and smirks into her glass like she has won a prize. Theon, alas, is less oblivious than her sweet brother. Theon is practically gleeful judging by the cat-like grin stretching across his charming face as he takes in the tennis rally of stares before him, she’s shocked he hasn’t thrown her a thumbs up yet, the messy thing that he is.

They’re not doing anything though, not really. Ok, it’s just a small variation of the truth. Sure, she is throwing a coy little glance every once in a while, but it is absolutely, most definitely only in retaliation for how he is looking at her. He is looking at her like he wants to consume her, and she likes it, in fact, she fucking loves it.

She was used to men looking at her like they wanted her. Men in the South and the Vale looked at her like she was a dainty trinket, a lovely bauble to laude about like a flower too young to be in bloom and weak from the frost. Jon, however, is looking at her at this very moment like he wants every part of her, as if he wants to have all those little pieces of her, put her back together and solve her.

She’s thinks she would let him. It doesn’t seem like the most idiotic thing she has ever done, she imagines she would rather like it, to just sit back and not worry for once, and just let Jon take and take and _take_.

“Are you even listening to a word I have said,” Arya finally grumbles.

Sansa doesn’t warrant her with her usual polite response, she merely hums and nods her head as she continues to take in the scene of Jon looking over his beer bottle at her from the other side of the darkened bar.

“What did I say then?”

“Oh I don’t know Arya, something about Gendry and his incredible arms I would imagine,” she huffs haughtily, which seems to have come to her rather easily along with her auburn hair, which she flicks for good measure, at which point she enjoys watching Jon’s jaw clench as he murmurs in agreement to whatever it is his companions are saying.

“Very funny Sans…” Arya continues, but she’s already ignoring her sister as she grumbles away before her, because if her peripheral vision is anything to go on, then _old grey-eyes_ has shouldered passed her sweet and clueless Robb and a positively gleeful Theon and is making his way across the bar.

Now, odds are, he would likely pass her by on a normal night, or he’d order another drink and politely offer her one at the least, because he is a darling like that, and she’s Robb’s little sister after all. If Arya is in the vicinity than it could go either way.

Her instinct must be a little off, but honestly, she can blame that on the tightness in her stomach and her lack of an orgasm that she hasn’t given herself in well… forever, but Jon Snow careens directly towards them with clear intent that perhaps he doesn’t want tonight to go the way the others have in the past.

She been practically begging him to come over for the last half hour, with her eyes at least, and her poor lip must be swollen at the rate she has nipped it with his teeth, she’s made her bed, so she really should lie in it, but she’s suddenly somewhat petrified. She isn’t normally so brazen. _Pre-return-home_ Sansa would have batted her eyelashes demurely if she caught a man looking at her heatedly as Jon had, but _Wintertown-Sansa-2.0_ had other ideas apparently.

“Sansa,” he says quietly as he comes to a stop in front of them.

“Hi Jon,” Arya answers just as Sansa opens her mouth. Jon reaches over and ruffles Arya’s hair in the same way he always has, in a way that will make Arya complain but Sansa knows she secretly loves.

“I’m going out for a cigarette,” he says, eyes still firmly fixed on Sansa.

“Hello, earth to Jon,” Arya grumbles theatrically, even waving an arm in his face, but he couldn’t seem to care less as he smirks at Sansa and tips his head towards the door.

“Do you want some fresh air, Sans?” he asks instead.

“Oh, so this is happening is it? Am I dead to you?”

“Arya,” he sighs, “don’t you have somewhere to be?” he continues, and really, Sansa is impressed he has the will to match Arya’s drama if he is half as turned on by their close proximity as she is.

“I’m actually impressed Snow,” Arya ignores him completely and soldiers on, “this has only taken you a few months, Theon and I were certain you would suffer in silence for at least a year.”

_Fucking hell._

Jon does look at Arya then, having not left Sansa’s gaze for this whole exchange. Jon and her sister now seem to be having a silent conversation in which Arya looks highly amused and Jon looks angrier than she has ever seen.

“Underfoot,” he says quietly.

“Yes Snow…”

“Kindly piss off.”

“Right,” she says, smacking her hands on her thighs, “pissing off as we speak then.”

Jon lets out a long-suffering sigh before turning back to her, and he looks a little softer now, like the way he normally looks, like he’s got the secrets of the world under his cap. He looks at her for a little while, as if he is trying to work something out, or trying to decide something, and he seemingly does, because he cocks his head in the direction of the door again and holds his hand, palm up towards her.

She shyly looks down, bits her lip and silently slips her hand into his, because why not? She’d love nothing more than to go outside with him for a bit, or whatever it is he has planned, so _why-fucking not_? That’s her reasoning anyway, as he starts gently pulling her towards the doors that lead to the terrace, and she follows happily, having not said a single word to him all evening, as she slips out into the night closely behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Not entirely sure where this is going. Will likely only be a few chapters at the most, but would love any feedback you may have!


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